The Smoke That Thunders

by Nathan Bassett

  Peter noticed a few of the passengers squirm as they came through the door. He was sure they were thinking that both he and Chad looked like exhausted, weather-beaten zombies.

  Chad glanced at their fellow passengers, nodded politely – and smiled. Peter knew it was a lifeless smile he offered. A forced and meaningless gesture, Peter thought. Pretending, he’s always pretending. He watched Chad squeeze onto the bench behind the driver’s side. Peter sat on the bench seat opposite. He clasped his hands and stared at his entwined fingers. He prayed that no one would neither talk to him nor notice him.

  Their fellow passengers, 14 of them, conversed among themselves, chatting about the thrill of Victoria Falls. The polite older German couple and the obnoxious honeymooners were the only familiar faces. Their new companions included a family of five that took up the two rows in the back of the bus. Their three blonde teenage girls were whispering loudly in Afrikaans, giggling after every sentence. The young girls ignored repeated demands by their parents to settle down. Two young couples sat next to Chad, and each had striking blond hair; they conversed in Swedish or Danish, though Peter wasn’t sure which. All four had backpacks stowed under their feet and looked like they had hiked down from the Swiss Alps.

  Peter made it obvious he was not going to partake in any friendly exchanges. When asked by a German couple what he thought about the Falls, he shrugged and with no animation, stated, “Amazing.” Surprisingly, Chad responded in a similar fashion. Peter turned to the right and stared resolutely out the front windshield. Chad let out an exaggerated yawn as he put his head back against the window.

  A few passengers expressed alarm when two machinegun-laden pickup trucks took their places in the front and rear of the bus. The German man, looking over his spectacles, smiled and assured his companions, “Only a precautionary measure. There has never been an attack on the motorway. The terrorists would never risk such a thing. Not to worry.” The bus began its four-and-half-hour journey to Bulawayo.

  An hour passed. Peter assumed Chad was asleep, but he couldn’t be sure. Sleep. God for some sleep. I’d sleep forever, never wake up. God give me some rest, why don’t ya? He sat with an open book in his hands, though his eyes never looked down; his gaze remained fixed on passing scenery he never saw. Eventually, all the friendly conversations died down, except for the drone of chattering teenagers at the rear of the vehicle. Quiet at last. Finally some peace. Peter closed his eyes and hoped to God he might sleep; but the emotions and images of the previous day would not fade.

  An explosion rocked the bus, jarring Peter nearly out of his seat. Seconds later, rapid gunfire came from the bushveld to the left and drowned out panicked screams. Machine guns on the guardian trucks unleashed a barrage of bullets producing an angry cacophony that vibrated the bus. Peter was sure his eardrums would burst. Along with all the others, he dove to the floor. He covered his ears trying to muffle the terror that wouldn’t stop.

  Three long seconds later – another explosion. It was followed by a storm of gunfire from the other side of the road. Machine guns fell silent; Peter could hear the pickup trucks’ breaks screeching as the veered out of control. He braced himself, knowing what was coming – the bus veered left to miss the lead truck. Screams intensified.

  Peter closed his eyes and held his breathe as shattered glass rained down on his head and neck. The screech of countless bullets ripping surgical holes through the defenseless metal pierced his ears. The bus careened back to the left, then to the right; it came to a jarring halt tossing Peter and the others around like fruit thrown into a barrel. Then, the gunfire ceased.

  Peter quickly looked around. He saw two men and one of the children bleeding profusely. One, a Swede, clutched his left arm; the other man was the German, bleeding heavily from his right thigh. The third, the child, lay moaning as her mother cradled her and attempted to slow the flow of blood from her left shoulder and arm.

  Peter desperately looked for Chad – he seemed to have vanished. Someone pointed to the front of the bus. His friend’s body lay near the driver’s seat – his stomach tightened. Blood spewed profusely from Chad’s head, or neck, or heart; Peter couldn’t tell.

  Peter’s brain ceased to process – motions and words void of thought. He placed the palm of his hand firmly on the side of Chad’s neck; this slowed the flow of blood somewhat, but within a few seconds, he felt his friend’s blood soaking through his own shirt and jeans. He shouted out, “Be quiet! Be quiet!”

  The screams stopped. Everyone remained on the bus floor, listening for any movement from outside the bus. All was quiet. Someone said, “That was close.”

  Peter motioned to him to shut up.

  Peter heard tugging at the door. A few passengers began to moan and Peter again motioned for silence. The tugging continued until the creak of strained hinges sent a bolt of fear straight through Peter’s gut and spine. He dare not look – his eye remained fixed on his friend as he watched Chad’s lifeblood ooze through his fingers. Out of the corner of his right eye he saw the barrel of an AK 47, it moved slowly back and forth, up and down. Peter knew the terrorist was savoring the impending mayhem. The man was going to enjoy each execution, the death of each defenseless, innocent human being.

  When he saw the barrel of the rifle pointed towards his head, Peter’s emotions disappeared, he felt nothing. I’ll look the bastard in the eyes. I’ll curse him to his face. I’ll damn him to a million hells. Some say pray for them. Pray for them? Goddamn him forever. Peter looked up. He looked the killer straight in the eyes. Peter’s heart stopped.

  The demon lowered his weapon, winked at Peter and said, “Dear Peter, we meet again.” He then looked at Chad. With a subtle but unnerving grin, he took a bandana from his back pocket and tossed it to Peter. “Take care my American friend, take care. I pray it is not too late for your friend.” Kebo turned and walked out of the bus as he barked orders to his freedom fighters.

  Using the terrorist’s offering, Peter did all he could to slow the fountain of blood. He could feel the life of his friend slipping away. Others began to assist the wounded. All wondered why they’d been spared; some declared that it was a miracle.

  At the first hail of bullets, the driver of their bus had radioed in the attack. It felt like an eternity to Peter before soldiers, police, and ambulances arrived.

  Peter watched an army helicopter take off as it airlifted the wounded to a hospital in Salisbury. He prayed his friend would be all right – he feared his prayers were already too late. He boarded a bus with the other survivors and was taken to an army outpost in Lupane. There officials probed them for minute and seemingly inconsequential details of the event.

  As Peter waited while others were being interrogated, he vacillated between warring factions in his brain: Tell them everything I know or don’t tell them anything? Common sense told him it was best not to admit to the authorities that he had met the leader of the band of terrorists involved in the attack. He did not want to confess he had remained silent and hidden the fact he knew terrorists were in the area. On the other hand, his moral sensibility insisted he should reveal absolutely everything he did know.

  Peter took his turn in the small, brightly lit office. A Rhodesian flag hung behind the desk; pictures of the country’s most beautiful and exotic scenes covered one wall, while photographs of its proud people, both Black and White, covered another. Peter relaxed as he studied the photos depicting the rich diversity of this African nation. He took in several deep breaths and determined he would tell everything he knew.

  Two officials entered, one Black and the other White. Both gave reassuring nods, coupled with concerned eyes and pressed lips. It reminded Peter of the expressions used at funerals to acknowledge the gravity of the situation while expressing a determined hope that life will go on. They offered him a cup of tea, which Peter declined.

  Both inquirers were polite, understanding, and patient. Peter sensed they understood the horror he had just been through. Of course, they
would, Peter realized. These individuals are all too familiar with the inhumanity of terror. They listened to Peter’s account with fascination as he described each man in Kebo’s band and related every word that he could remember being spoken.

  They knew Kebolo Matemela well. His reputation made him infamous among the Rhodesian Light Infantry, which had been tracking him for five years. Selous Scouts (a group of former terrorists who had joined the Rhodesian army and taken on the role of infiltrating guerrilla groups), had infiltrated his group on two occasions. Both times, the Scouts were brutally disemboweled and left as examples. The officers said they had known Kebo was in the area.

  Peter learned more about the eerie freedom fighter. In the mid-sixties, he left Zambia to study at King’s College in London. Not long after he began his studies, a few student affiliates of the Communist Party of Great Britain latched on to him. He quickly immersed himself in the teachings of Marx, Lenin, and Mao Zedong. He proved to be a formidable leader in the university’s student communists group, writing dozens of articles for The Zimbabwe Review, a leftist paper in London. He began taking a lead in their meetings and rallies. In 1969, he received an invitation from a leader in the Zimbabwe African People’s Party (ZAPU) to “study” in the USSR. There, he joined an elite group of six other handpicked individuals. In a small, nondescript flat in the Chririmuski District of Moscow, he received paramilitary training, learning how to use sophisticated weapons and how to manufacture and use explosives. He mastered the tactics of executing ambushes against personnel and vehicles, and he learned the art of camouflage and spoor-covering. He also studied the tried and proven methods of indoctrination: how to endear the communist philosophy to the common people and challenge their young people to join the revolution. He became a highly trained, highly educated terrorist. He returned to Zambia to recruit and train terrorists and then began intrusions into Rhodesia to execute acts of terror and recruit young freedom fighters.

  The officers were impressed with Peter’s encounter with this infamous leader. Once they were satisfied that there was no more information to be gleaned, they thanked him and led him to the door. As he left, they said they would arrange for a change of clothes, stating that his bloodstained garments would have to be burned. Peter did not want to leave that office; they knew, they understood, and they cared.

  It took three hours of questioning to interview each of the eleven survivors. The group of strained and traumatized travelers became increasingly angry, anxious, and scared during the process. They begged, then demanded to be taken to the hospital in Salisbury. They had to know what was going on with their family members and their friends. Every request for information and action was met with the same rote response: “We’re doing all we can. Please be patient. It will not be much longer. Would you care for a cup of tea?”

  Peter chose to let others fight that battle. He sat alone, not wanting to be bothered. He knew his friend was dead. He needed solitude to prepare himself for the inevitable declaration. Peter eventually gathered enough composure to make a phone call. With a calm demeanor that surprised even him, he informed Richard of the event and of the unknown status of Chad. Peter did not tell Richard he was certain Chad could not have survived, but he prepared him for the worst. Richard said he would call Simon.

  CHAPTER 28

  Hospital Reunion

  The 430-kilometer (270-mile) journey took just under four hours. When Peter got off the bus at the Andrew Fleming Hospital in Salisbury, he stood and watched the huge African sun fall beneath the horizon. He wanted to be impressed by the beauty, the majesty of this sunset, but he felt nothing.

  A nurse greeted Peter and his frazzled companions from the bus. In an overly kind and concerned tone, in a near whisper, she said, “Please have a seat and relax. It shall not be long. We will inform you of any reports as soon as we possibly can. Let me get the names of your loved ones …”

  The worried and frightened group waited.

  First, the Afrikaner family was called; then the German man; and much later, the three Swedes. Peter heard cries of relief as they walked with the doctor down the hall and prepared to be reunited with their loved ones.

  He continued to wait. Another hour went by, then two. Why is this taking so long? Just tell me he’s dead. Let me identify the body and get out of here. He asked every passing nurse, “Please, do you know what’s going on? His name is Chad, Chadwick Daley. Can you find out? Please.”

  Each one smiled, nodded, and said, “I will see what I can find out,” but they never came back.

  At eight thirty-nine p.m., a long, thin face peered around the waiting room door and glanced at half a dozen faces waiting for news about less dire situations. “A … Mr. …” He looked at his clipboard. “ Mr. McKnight?”

  The doctor led Peter down the corridor. He walked briskly and introduced himself as Dr. Shelby. With his eyes straight ahead, he asked, “You are the friend of Mr. Chadwick Daley?”

  Peter muttered an inaudible response.

  He continued, “I understand that Mr. Daley has no relatives in the area, in the country? Is that correct?” He glanced at Peter, who nodded his head and held his breath. The doctor stopped and gripped Peter’s shoulder. “Well, your friend is doing very well. He will be fine – just fine.”

  Peter let his breath out slowly. He wanted to laugh but didn’t. Dr. Shelby pointed his long index finger to the base of Peter’s neck. “A bullet grazed here, at his external jugular vein, causing a moderate tear. Very fortunately, it was not severed. He was a very lucky young man.” He then put thumb and index finger on the lower part of Peter’s neck. “The sternocleidomastoid, this muscle, in the anterior portion of the neck, was damaged as the projectile went in here and out here.” He touched one side then the other side of his neck. “That shall heal with no problem, though he will be quite sore for a little while. He must be very careful, but it poses no problem. Your friend is an extremely fortunate young man. Another two centimeters, and that vein would have been beyond repair. He was very lucky indeed.”

  Peter’s eyes filled with tears, which he quickly wiped away.

  The doctor continued, “Chadwick has lost a significant amount of blood. He will need some topping up. In a day or two, he will regain strength, and in few weeks, he will have full movement in his neck. He’ll be good as new in two or three weeks.” Dr. Shelby shook Peter’s hand and began to walk down the corridor. “If you’ll please excuse me now.”

  Peter stopped the Dr. Shelby as he quickened his stride. “Can I give blood? Would that help?”

  “Do you know your blood type?”

  “I don’t remember for sure.”

  “We can determine that. I’ll let the sister know.”

  “Can I see him?”

  As the doctor walked off, he said, “Give him a wee bit longer. The anesthetic is still wearing off. Come back in an hour or so.”

  Peter gave blood, ate a sandwich, and drank stewed, lukewarm tea. He found a deserted waiting room and lay on the floor in a corner. He closed his eyes and prayed: for Chad, for the families dealing with trauma, for the bus driver’s and soldiers’ families being told of their loss. He prayed he would not have a panic attack. He fell asleep for the first time in thirty-six hours.

  ***

  Chad had no idea what time or what day it was as consciousness slowly returned. He only knew it was dark outside. Where the hell am I? What the hell happened? What’s going on? His disorientation was unnerving.

  Then he remembered: an explosion, gunshots, machine guns blasting, vibrating his whole body. Then, nothing. God. Where’s Pete? Is he alive? How many died? My God, where’s Peter?

  He was trying to get up when he saw tubes in both arms: one with a bag of blood, the other containing saline with a morphine drip. He attempted to sit up, but as he did, his whole body began to wobble. I don’t like this. God, am I dying? As he looked around the empty, sterile room, excruciating pain shot through his neck. He screamed. Then the pain
went down into his shoulder and up into his head. He screamed again but tried to muffle it. He could only lay motionless, hoping the pain would retreat, and then he drifted off to sleep.

  Something startled Chad out of his dreamless slumber. How long have I been out this time? He felt more alert, stronger and – thank God – in less pain. He moved his right arm slowly toward his neck and gently touched the thick bandages. He wanted to look and see the damage, to figure out what had happened.

  A voice quietly said, “Now, now. You are to leave that alone. It wants time to heal. You have a nasty wound that does not want any fussing. How do you feel, Mr. Daley?”

  “I don’t really know.”

  “Well, you’re doing splendidly, splendidly. I am Sister Drew. I will be looking after you until the morning.” Sister Drew spoke with a cheery confidence required of those in caring professions. Her self-assured manner overshadowed her frail build.

  “How long will I be ...?”

  “Shush now. It shall not be long if you leave those bandages alone and quit flailing those arms around. My guess is two or three days. However, the good doctor will decide that. Now, we must get some more blood in those veins and let you get your strength back.” Sister Drew held up a bag of blood, squeezed it and changed it for the one that had just emptied.

  “Do you know where my friend Peter is? Peter McKnight? Do you know anything about him?”

  “No. I’m sorry, but I will check on him.”

  “How many … did anyone … die?”

  She squeezed the fresh bag again and watched its blood begin flowing through the thin, plastic hose into Chad’s body. Then she looked out the window. “I don’t know the details, I’m afraid.” She turned and walked to the door. “What is your friend’s name again?”

  Chad’s stomach turned. He closed his eyes and clenched his jaw tight. He felt tears coming. The realization overwhelmed him, he could have died, and for all he knew, Peter may have. “What if he’s gone? My God, what if he is dead? Damn that coin! Damn him,” Chad whispered as he let the tears come.